


Home Is With You

by Val_Creative



Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Brothers, Domestic, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Sickfic, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-11
Updated: 2012-08-11
Packaged: 2017-11-11 22:51:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/483747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Val_Creative/pseuds/Val_Creative
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Wake up, Little D." He slaps the lump of blanket playfully. Damian mutters venomously, half pressed into his pillow, "Grayson, do that again and I will stab you."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Home Is With You

*

 

The covers are not thick enough to be protected from the assault of a particularly chilly morning.

Grayson is a fidgety bed companion and allows what is left of any warmth to _escape_. Inconsiderate bastard. Why ever Damian thought it would be the fitter course of action to run away from Wayne Manor — and from the man he idealized since he understood the greatness behind the infamous word of " _Batman_ " — to live with Grayson in his own slummy city is sometimes beyond his own rationale.

Grayson yawns into a closed fist when he heaves himself up from the thin, queen-sized bed, stretching out the length of his broad shoulders, and scratching the dark space behind his ear.

"Wake up, Little D." He turns and slaps the lump of blanket next to him playfully.

Damian mutters venomously, half pressed into his pillow, "Grayson, do that again to my ass and I will stab you," and yanks the remaining edge of mint cream-colored covers over his head. He growls aloud when the covers are yanked back to his waist and Grayson's gleeful smile is _nauseating_ so early.

A faint snicker. Bastard. "You're usually up before me."

"There's a first time for everything, Grayson. Now piss off."

Grayson only snickers some more, momentarily obscured by the kitchen wall before reappearing through the open space by the kitchen sink and the flattop grill. "Want anything to eat? We got eggs." Damian rolls his eyes as the older man moves to grab the carton, milk, cheese, and other items from the refrigerator — and while arranging everything, manages to spill a bag of bell peppers.

"You are incapable of making a decent breakfast so don't even bother," Damian declares, irritated and scooting off the bed to steer Grayson clear out of his way as he takes over, cracking egg yolks into a mixing bowl. "Grate the cheese if you think you can handle several moments without bumbling over yourself." The twelve-year-old switches on the grill and tries to blink the growing fuzz out of his vision.

He dumps the whisked ingredients onto the flattop grill (including Grayson's sad excuse of "grated" cheese), stirring a little with rubber spatula and the smell _curdles_ Damian's empty stomach.

"Is the heat getting to you? You look a little red."

Damian shoves away Grayson's hand reaching for the back of his bare neck, coughing into his dark blue pajama shirt sleeve before focusing on the now golden brown tomato-and-mushroom omelettes. "Are you dense? It's freezing in here." He switches off the grill and is _not_ shivering. That is ridiculous.

"Damian. _Damian_ , please," Grayson's tone is firm and bordering on pleading when the teenager fights for personal space once again.

Another cough, deeper, rattling, is muffled into the shirt sleeve.

"This is pointless," Damian insists in a croak, as the inside of Grayson's wrist — _soothing with body heat to his starving skin_ — touches his forehead, and Grayson's fuzzed expression falls, and the spatula falls, and Damian isn't falling because the world _lifts_ , cradling him gently back to his pillow.

Grayson is leaning over him, clearing to a more solid, concerned-looking figure. He tips an end of a thermometer to Damian's lips. With one hand, Damian snatches it from him to hold in his own mouth, and with his other, tucks the bed covers around him. Sweat beads his face. So cold.

A beep. Damian eyes the thermometer's reading skeptically. "It's broken, Grayson. Throw it out."

"Let me see." Grayson sighs. "102.4 degrees is around what I thought. You're definitely not going on patrol."

" _That's not_ —!" Damian shoots up, and instantly regrets it as he finds he can no longer judge which way the floor or ceiling is and drops his head into his knees, digging his fingernails into his cheeks hard, and harder as his throbbing head increases in that sensation of spinning _lightness_.

Grayson's hand rubbing careful circles into his back helps him steady himself and Damian doesn't bother to tell him off for it.

"Take deep breathes." A beat. Another.

Damian raises his head, tiny half-moons blazing in color against his already flushed expression.

"This is serious, Damian. Unless the fever decides to break by nightfall, consider yourself temporarily suspended from anything that isn't eating or resting up."

"Does that include listening to you continue prattling on like an inept mother hen?" A very annoyed Damian asks Grayson's back as the older man runs to the bathroom and returns with an armful.

"Think you can hold down some medicine?"

"I'm _not_ sick. And put that IV away."

The medical bag kit closes. Grayson laughs, blue eyes crinkling. "And I'm not a terrible cook?" he offers as a refute.

Reluctantly, Damian accepts the dosage of 700mg of ibuprofen, swallowing with the glass of tap water on the dresser drawer nearby and tossing aside the pill bottles. He burrows down, lying flat on his side and mumbling, "… …—finally got you to admit it…"

" _Sleep_. It will be good for you."

Grayson's fingers brush Damian's temple as a cool, wet cloth is placed against his hairline. Grayson's voice softens, "Do you ever wish you could go back to being Robin?"

"…— _mm_ … what would be… the point without you…?"

The calloused pads of fingertips pause from sweeping the thin strands of inky hair from Damian's face — _relaxing with sleep, unwrinkling_ —

"…Thanks, Dami."

 

*


End file.
